Butterfly Effect
by Fiddlestickz
Summary: Can the most insignificant change to the narrative, alter the course of a person's life? When Evan's hands start to sweat at the jazz band concert, he thought he had lost all hope to talk to Zoe Murphy. Luckily for him, he managed to spot a lost pair of gloves. Picking them up may have saved, not only him, but someone else, too. Eventual Treebros. Previously known as Missing Piece.
1. Change of Fate

**Thanks for checking out this story! **

**Can the most insignificant change to the narrative, alter the course of a person's life? When Evan's hands start to sweat at the jazz band concert, he thought he had lost all hope to talk to Zoe Murphy. Luckily for him, he managed to spot a lost pair of gloves. Picking them up may have saved, not only him, but someone else too**

**Trigger warnings later on, esp. chapter 5-8 which are from Connors POV (non-explicit descriptions of self-harm, mentions of suicide, unhealthy relationships/solutions, etc.) The story takes place the Spring before the events of the play. Follows Canon somewhat (The play - haven't read the book).**

**Hope you enjoy the story!**

* * *

A stress headache was oncoming. I could feel it already.

My brain was running a million miles per hours, ripping itself apart into a mess of utter chaos. Just walk up to her, and talk to her, and be super chill and casual, that's only three things you have to do. Come on, Evan. You can do this. This was the mantra I repeated until I was nearly shaking.

Originally, my plan was to wait until the concert was over. Then, when she was done performing, I would step in. I'd make the coolest, most smoothest first impression she has ever heard. One that would be so charming, it would assure that she would never forget me. Then, when Zoe finally succumbed to my charms, we could proceed to have a cheesy, romantic first date. Like those couples have in those Hallmark Channel movies. And after some time, she would get to know me, and maybe even start to truly understand me in ways no one else could, and she'd really like me... for me.

Then, of course, we'd get married, and live happily ever after, with like, three kids. Anyways, it was the perfect plan, right?

But, my life can never be that easy. Because, here I am, in the men's bathroom balling my eyes out, sweating like a Fudgesicle in Phoenix, Arizona. All because I'm so pathetic I can't even try to talk to someone. I can't do it. I can't talk to Zoe Murphy. Not now. If I approached her now, she'd just think I'm some moist, weird loser with a speech impediment. But, if we're being honest, that wasn't too far off from the truth. I shake my head.

Futilely, I waved my hands under the hand drier, as if I thought shaking them would help them dry any faster. But at this point, I've tried everything to get them dry, but the sweat kept coming back. I would wash them off, and they'd be drenched not even a moment later. It stuck to me like glue. I silently curse the facility for its lack of paper towels.

After the machine's power trailed off, I stared at my hands with an expectant scowl. Of course, they were as sweaty before, why wouldn't they be? but, I guess on the bright side, at least they were warmer now! I heaved a breath, wiping my hands on my khaki pants, which only served to get a large stain on my pants. I grit my teeth and force a smile to hold back a few colorful words.

That's just plain peachy, isn't it?

I make my way out of the bathroom, wandering down the halls with no destination in mind. I was so close to talking to Zoe Murphy this time that I could feel it, I bitterly thought to myself. It was just within my grasp, yet here I am, tromping around the school halls like a lost goblin. It was all ironic, in a pathetic kind of way. I mean, how is it that I so desperately want to be with her, but at the same exact time, can't stand to be around her? I can't just walk up to her and talk to her like a normal human being, no, I sit around doing nothing, except daydream about it. Who knows, Zoe may even like me or want to talk to me, as an unlikely of a case that may be. But, because I can't even look her in the eye, I would have no clue whether that's even true or not.

I stomped down the school halls, mumbling to myself. When all of a sudden, my thoughts were interrupted as a shoulder slammed into mine. I almost fell to the ground.

I wince, and rubbed my injured shoulder. While I would like to say I brushed off the injury and moved on, that wouldn't be the exact truth. It hurt a lot more than I would care to admit.

"I—I, oh, um," I try to stutter out an apology, but I fail to do even that menial of a task. All feelings I felt before of viscous self-loathing were replaced by the ever-familiar anxiousness. "Sorry," I finish. The apologetic sentiment was not returned like expected.

I stare up at my 'attacker'. And was greeted by not a face, but a greasy, unwashed mop of brown hair, and the back of a dirty black button-up shirt or a jacket. It was difficult to tell which from behind. His combat boots clunked loudly against the tile. I'm surprised I didn't hear them before.

Connor Murphy, my mind filled in. Of course, I never pinned him as the type to apologize, and knowing him, he probably ran into me on purpose. But he wasn't yelling at me, or blaming me for the collision, which was suspcious to say the least. He didn't even acknowledge my presence with a sarcastic remark, which was unusual. Actually, he was running away. Wherever he was going, he was definitely in a hurry.

What is he doing here in the first place? I never recalled ever seeing any of Zoe's family at these events, and would be mildly surprised to see any of them. But Connor was here... Connor of all people?

A flash of movement in my vision caught my attention. I stared up, wide-eyed as Connor wrenched the door open. Then slammed it behind him, nearly ripping it off its hinges. He seemed really upset... which, if you don't know him, may sound like an understatement. But he was always kind of this way — uncaring and pissed off. Tonight was different, though. Something felt off about his behavior, and I couldn't shake it. I wondered if something happened to him.

Silently, I stared at the door he left through. Concern built up in my throat, and I tried to choke it back down, but it held fast. Why? This was so ridiculous, why was I worried? Connor has been nothing but hostile towards me. While I sympathized with the fact he wasn't quite right in the head, it didn't justify me feeling like this. I wasn't his parent, I wasn't his friend, I wasn't his family, I was just me. I had no relationship to him, other than him occasionally blowing up at me, along with the rest of the world.

Besides, even if something was wrong with him, it's not like I could waltz up to him and ask, 'Hey, bud, you alright?' He would rip my head off if I tried anything remotely similar.

I sighed and shook my head. It wasn't any of my business, I decided. I turned on my heel, and took a step forward. I was leaving. I was going home. I've suffered enough embarrassment tonight to last me a lifetime. But when I looked up from my feet, I spotted a pair of black gloves lying on the ground a few feet away. I stop and frown at the sight. I don't think they were there before. I walk closer hesitantly. No, they definitely weren't there before. I'm positive. Curiously, I picked them up, and turned them in my hand to examine them.

They looked like the type of thing you would find at a Spencer's or a Hot topic, so, of course, I knew they were Connor's. It was kinda ironic, considering his family was supposedly insanely rich. If he wanted to, I'm sure he could get his clothes from a designer goth-y brand, like, the Gucci for punks or something. I rub the material between my fingers, it was thick leather, with a symbol on the front I didn't recognize. When I looked inside, there were dark stains inside. I was too frightened to ponder what they might be for too long.

I turned my head back in the direction Connor fled in, and took a deep breath. I bit my lip, and walked towards the door, trying to look through the small window to see if I can spot him. But I only see faded white lines and a few cars parked. Connor was probably long gone by now, since he was old enough to drive and owned his own car, scarily enough. I look down at the gloves, and stick them in my pocket. I could return them in the morning, I guess. I start heading back out.

Or you could give them to Zoe, a quiet voice in my head chimed in. I stop walking.

Oh. Oh, shit. I could do that, but wait, wouldn't that be dishonest of me? To take advantage of Connor's loss just to have an ice breaker to talk to his sister? My eyes dance around, debating the options carefully in my head.

I could return them directly to Connor. Explaining exactly what happened could control any misinformation he might conjure up. It would end any future suspicions he might have. Plus, I would be certain it is returned to him, and it would put my guilty conscious at ease. And who knows? He might actually be thankful.

But... if I gave them to Zoe.

Well... I got the chance to talk to Zoe Murphy.

...

... I think we all know which option I picked.


	2. A Swing and A Miss

Determination filled me, I stuffed the gloves into my pocket, and with a newfound confidence, I strode purposefully towards the concert hall. There's a good chance she has left already, but there's still a small chance she hasn't, and I was willing to at least try.

I take a deep breath, so my heart didn't pound out of my chest. _I can do this. I can do this._ This is my second chance. I couldn't mess this up. All needed to do is casually stroll up to her, and impress her quickly before my brain melted into complete mush. I rehearse the lines in my head a hundred times until I could recite them by rote. My mind was dancing with excitement at the aspect, despite the fact I knew this plan would probably end in complete disaster. Still, I hoped this would work. It had to work. I rub my clammy hands together in anticipation.

What would I say to her? Obviously, I would hand her the gloves, but how could I make the conversation more than just an item exchange? Can I even _manage_ more than just an item exchange? What would we talk about? _Jazz?_ I don't know the first thing about jazz, other than the fact that Zoe Murphy plays guitar in the jazz band. That was the extent of my knowledge. Should we even discuss jazz? I mean, I know a little more about the pop genre, but I don't know if she likes pop music, and besides, I don't even like pop music enough to _justify_ starting a whole conversation about it. I groan. This whole ordeal was already overwhelming, and I haven't even seen her yet.

As I briskly walked down the halls, hiding my hands in my pockets, I almost miss the familiar sound of sneakers squeaking against the cheap vinyl floor. Instantly, dread filled me, and I looked back up in reality.

My heart dropped in the pit of my stomach the moment I spotted her. I sharply gasp, before slapping a hand over my mouth. So much for my plan of acting cool. Thankfully, Zoe didn't seem to hear me. She casually walked past me, guitar case strapped on her back, and Apple headphones plugged in her ears. She strut down the hall with a slight sway to her step, as she hummed quietly to the music. All I could do was stare at her blankly, and mentally repeat, _ohmygodohmygod_ over and over again.

I attempt to move, but only muster a single pathetic step forward. I desperately want to move closer, but I couldn't. Breathing was becoming difficult. It was like an external force was holding me hostage by my lungs. My mind blanked. Any previous thoughts I had of approaching her disappeared completely. I watched her back as she walked out the door. The door shut behind her slowly, and in an instant, she was gone. My feet remained worthlessly glued to the floor.

This was my second chance, and I failed it. I scoff to myself, I should've known better. Of course I'd fail, anyone could've predicted that. When push came to shove, I knew I couldn't do it.

I could practically hear Jared's nagging voice in the back of my head: "_She was right there! You had the perfect chance, and you blew it... for what? Your stupid feelings?"_

"_I wanted to_..." I replied internally, "_I couldn't move. I ruined everything. There's no fixing this."_

"_No! Go pick up your damn bootstraps, stop being such a pussy, and go get her digits! Go talk to Zoe Murphy, Go!"_

Imaginary Jared was right. She's right outside this door, I still have a chance.

Like a light switch went off in my head, a glimmer of courage sparked in my chest. I don't know if it was caused by fake Jared, or common sense kicking my butt into gear, but something pushed me to run after her. And with an energy I've never felt before, I bursted through the door, chasing after her like those guys in those chick-flick movies.

I could see the light of her phone halfway across the parking lot. She sauntered to her car, unaware of my presence. I called after her, but she didn't hear me.

My feet pounded against the asphalt in rhythm with the rapid beating of my heart. I felt my hair stick to my forehead — slick with sweat — but this didn't bother me. I felt like Ryan Gosling in the Notebook; chasing after my girlfriend through the heavy rain, shirt soaked with water. Well, except in this case, the 'rain' was my outride sweat, and my 'girlfriend' was a girl I had a crush on, who didn't even know I exist. Still... romantic, I convince myself.

She climbed into the driver's seat, and started the car. I ran faster, waving my hands in the air, trying to catch her attention. She had her car in reverse when I got there. I rapped my knuckles urgently on the window.

She dropped her phone, and screamed _loudly_. Anyone in the five-mile radius probably heard it.

I felt utter terror. All the previous excitement of the prospect of young love sapped away. I stared at her wide-eyed, as my actions finally caught up to my consciousness.

_Oh_ _my_ _God... here I am, chasing her through a parking lot at night, how did I not think this through? She probably thinks I'm a creep. Oh sh— she's probably going to call 911. I'm going to get arrested. She's going to call 911, and get my ass arrested._

For an awkward moment, we gawk at one another in a mutual silent horror, both terrified of what the other person would do. The fact that I was so worried about sweaty hands earlier seemed so ridiculous. Now, I was worried about how I would survive my newfound prison life. All I could do was watch, completely mortified at what I had done.

Then, a strange look passed through her eyes. For a moment, she stopped looking at me like a serial killer. Her eyebrows knitted together. "..._Evan?" _she asked apprehensively. It takes me a second to find my words.

"Evan," I confirm, tone just as cautious as hers. I wasn't sure if I wanted to confirm my identity as the creepy stalker, but a small part of me hoped that, somehow, I could save this conversation.

She pointed at me confusedly. "That's your name...?"

I smack my forehead. 'Evan'? Really? Of course she didn't understand. I responded to a yes or no question by repeating her like an idiot. God, I'm obnoxious. "Yes! Yes, it is, it's Evan! Sorry!" I tried to sound cheerful, and not like a murderous stalker, but I end up shouting at her instead. I look away, blinking back tears of embarrassment.

"Oh, ok. Well, um... it was nice seeing you, but I gotta—" she looked over her shoulder, and the car started moving backwards.

"No wait, open the window!" Mid-sentence I realized how absolutely insane I sounded. "I, um," I pull out the gloves from my pocket, "your brother, Connor, he, uh, dropped these!" I hold them up to the window, but she didn't roll it down.

"Oh. Uh, huh. Okay," she said with a forced smile. Without hesitation, she continued to back up. I barely move out of the way before she nearly ran over my foot. She left the parking lot with haste, like she was afraid I would follow her.

I watched her car, as it left the parking lot. I don't chase her this time, and imaginary Jared didn't tell me off.

"Damn it," I groan to myself. I kick a small rock beneath my feet irritably. I knew this would happen, but I was blinded by the heat of the moment. I would've been better off if I didn't speak to her at all. With a sigh, I put the gloves back in my pocket.

... Well, back to plan, 'Talk to Connor' I guess, I grimace. I _really_ didn't want to talk to Connor Murphy.

Now don't get me wrong, I t's not like I had any sort of grudge against him or anything, and I wouldn't really have problem with talking to him, except for the fact that _my_ social issues and _his_... uh... social issues really don't mix well. I think my stammering pisses him off. I have never really went out of my way to talk to him before, but I could always see the way he glared at me when it was my turn to speak in class. The few times I have talked to him, it was usually just one or two words exchanged. Typically, apologizing for something Jared did or said.

My phone began to ring, knocking me out of my thoughts. I glance at the caller ID.

_Mom_

I hissed out a curse word. I forgot that I asked her to pick me up like two hours ago. A quick check of my notifications showed me she had called me over twenty-five times. I answer hesitantly.

"Hey, mom," I said awkwardly. I could hear her take a deep breath at the other end. I brace myself.

"_Evan! Do you have any idea how scared I was?! I've called you like a hundred times and you didn't pick up! I've been waiting for you to come out for like an hour and a half!"_ I could almost see her angry expression through the telephone line.

_"_Sorry, mom. I, um, didn't hear you calling. I, uh, went out the wrong way, I—I'm in the back, I think." I only tell her the partial truth. She didn't have to know why I went the wrong way. It'll be easier if she just thinks I'm lost. She frustratedly sighed. I knew this conversation wasn't finished, and she would be demanding answers later.

"_Alright, Evan. I'm on my way."_


	3. The Apple Doesn’t Fall Far from the Tree

As we left the school, I felt a weight— which I hadn't even noticed before— being lifted off my shoulders. My mind felt at ease.

Even though the atmosphere in the car was a little tense, obviously me not answering Mom's calls for two hours straight was not a very good mood setter, but it wasn't nearly as bad as staying in that godawful parking lot. I think partially because it just felt nice to be away from the 'crime scene'.

_Bon Jovi's_ muffled voice from the radio filled the otherwise stagnant air. Every now and then Mom would hum a part which she was familiar with, giving me hope to believe that she wasn't _that_ angry with me. Hopefully she wasn't. I fidgeted my hands together in my lap. My prediction was proven correct when she started to speak.

"So..." she spoke suspiciously calm, I hold my breath preparing myself to answer, "How did the concert go?"

"Uh... it went... went great. Lots— lots of people were there... " I debate whether or not to tell her just how anxious the crowd made me. How quickly the air left my lungs at the sight of it. How I stuck it out, even though I wanted to leave desperately, just to try and talk to Zoe. How scared I am that she won't ever want to see me again, or even if she did want become my friend— or better yet, more than that— it may not even fix _anything_.

For better or for worse, I decide not to vomit all of my anxious thoughts of the night onto her.

"...and I, um, even went up and talked to a few." I lie. I shocked myself by how easily it slipped out, and how believable it sounded. I'm not entirely sure if I'm okay with it either.

"Really? That's wonderful, honey. I'm so proud of you! Did you get any numbers? Email addresses? Maybe you can make some friends, huh?"

"Yeah, um, maybe," I look away. Sometimes lying is necessary, I tell myself. Mom has enough on her plate as it is. I didn't need to add any extra stress.

"Good! I'm so happy to hear it. Hopefully you can squeeze in a few last good memories before you become a senior this fall!"

I give her my best attempt at a smile, "Definitely."

"... And hopefully you'll have your drivers license by then." She unnecessarily adds.

"I'll get it this summer. Promise." I didn't feel as confident as I tried to sound. I think she caught my bluff this time. She clicked her tongue.

"Well, if you want to volunteer at Ellison Park this summer, you need to practice," she turned onto our street, "When I'm at work I can't take you, y'know?"

"I know." I sigh. As if right on time, we had arrived home. Times like these made me thankful we lived close to the school.

The car moved up the long slope of the driveway. The headlights shone against the brick wall, the spotlights growing larger as we approached. The old car puffed loudly as it came to a stop. I stared up at my mom, waiting for her to turn off the car and get out.

She did. Slower than normal. She pulled the key out of the ignition. She paused. My heart rate begin to ring in my ears, getting higher by he second, at her sudden change in demeanor.

"Evan..." The single utter of my name sounded grave. My heart leapt into my throat. She gripped onto the steering wheel. What was wrong? Was something wrong? Worry casted in her eyes, and I could see her thinking carefully about what she was about to say next.

_"Evan_." She repeated. Her voice sounded stronger, as if she was trying to return to her previous strand of thought.

I wasn't sure if I should respond or not. I opened my mouth to speak, but hesitantly close it. My mouth has gotten me in enough trouble tonight.

She seemingly broke out of her trance and looked at me. A moment passes of awkward eye contact.

"...How did the concert go?"

I stared blankly at her as I made unintelligible noises. She literally just asked me this just a few minutes ago. What the heck is going on?

"Uh... good." I repeat what I said earlier, airing on the side of caution. What else does she expect me to say? Apparently what I said wasn't good enough, because she sighed, exasperated.

"Evan... you know... you know you can always talk to me, right?"

Once again, panic rose to the surface. Did she see me with Zoe? Was that what this is about? Maybe she did see us. I didn't notice her car, but maybe she saw us. Maybe she heard her scream. Did Mom think I was trying to hurt her?

"Uh... um, yeah?" I force out.

"Evan... it's okay," she turned to face me entirely, "I won't judge. Trust me, I have no place to judge you. I was only a teenager when I met your father, after all. I know what it's like." It was difficult to see in the dark, but judging by the tone of her voice, she sounded as if she were on the verge of crying.

My eyebrows creased together. What in the world is she talking about? My brain goes through every possible explanation, but turns up empty. What did Dad have to do with any of this?

"Oh, Evan..." she mistook my silence as a confession of guilt, "come here, baby."

She tried to wrap her arms around me, but I pull away from her touch. Even in the dark, I could make out her hurt expression. I nearly apologized, but I knew I had to speak before I lost my momentum.

"I... I don't know what you're talking about." I say as clearly as I can.

"Evan..._don't lie to me," _she sighed.

"I'm _not_... I—I don't know."

"Do you think I believe that?"

"_It's the truth!"_ I subconsciously raise my voice trying to defend myself. She matches it tenfold.

"Evan. You don't answer my calls for almost three hours—" it was two, but I decide now's not to correct her, "— then, I hear this girl screaming! Next thing I know, after she drives off, you're _finally_ ready to be picked up."

"I—"

"Not to mention, how sweaty and disheveled you were when you finally showed up. What am I supposed to think?"

I nearly choke on my own spit when I finally realize what she is insinuating. She continued, her voice giving away how upset she was.

"You didn't... didn't even _try_ to hide it!" Red tinged my cheeks and ears in embarrassment.

"Mom! I—I didn't!" It falls on deaf ears.

"All I'm asking for is the truth! I need to know— _Oh God!_ Please tell me you used protection!"

"I'm telling you the truth!" I pretend I didn't hear that last part.

"I—" She stopped. I could feel her eyes scan me for any sign of a lie. I try to remain impassive as I can.

"I didn't do anything... like that." I said evenly.

"I'm sorry." Her voice cracked. I remain silent. "I'm sorry." She repeated with a sob.

"It's okay." I say softly, not knowing what else to say or do. She collapsed onto me in a hug, and held me close to her. I let her this time. I rubbed circles on her back when she cried on my shoulder.

"No. It's not. I—I should've..." she laughed with tears in her eyes, "Why...? Why wouldn't I believe you? It's so _ridiculous_. You haven't given me a reason not to believe you..."

We both knew the reason, but neither of us said it out loud. The answer was loud and clear as to why she would be sensitive and distrustful when it came to this topic. Simply put: Dad.

We stayed like this, in a hug, inside a parked car in front of our house, for awhile.

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

When we got inside. I briefly explained to her what really had happened. I left out the parts that would make her worried— which was almost all of it— or cause her to immediately send me to a psychiatric ward.

She didn't show she suspected anything off about the story. Then again, it was really late at night, so she was probably tired. I was, too. It wasn't long after the conversation that we went to bed.

I laid there on my mattress for a long time, staring up at the outdated popcorn ceiling, thinking to myself.

_Tomorrow,_ Mom had said, she wasn't going to be home until late that night. She has to work double shifts, which, is apparently going to be kinda the norm now. Whenever she can, she's going to try to pick up extra shifts.

With the opportunity of a promotion arising, she has been trying to to convince her boss to choose her for the promotion by going that '_extra mile'_, as she had put it.

_It's not going to really bother me. I'll be okay._ Is what I had told her in return. Whether or not I was trying to convince _her_ I'd be okay, or trying to convince _myself_, I'm not entirely sure.

I toss and turn in my bed. Not feeling comfortable no matter how I lied. I squeeze my eyes shut trying to will myself to sleep.

_You're going to be okay._


	4. Missing Persons

For the eighth time this morning, I check my pockets, to reassure myself that the gloves were indeed still in there. I was damn near obsessed, as if I thought they'd magically disappear if I didn't check every thirty-minutes. As anyone could have expected, Connor's gloves were still there.

Not that it'd really matter if I had them or not. I haven't even seen Connor all day today, and it was, I check the clock once again, 2:00 PM.

And it's not like I haven't tried to find him. Every single class that I share with Connor, I've searched every seat for him. I spent my entire lunch period looking for him. I've walked up and down the halls looking high and low for him _multiple times_ in between classes.

I even hired Jared's help— which costed me two dollars, _each_— to try to find either Connor _or_ _Zoe_. He turned up empty, too. There were no signs of the Murphy siblings anywhere.

Now, I'm not dumb. Logically thinking, I know they probably just stayed at home, most likely sick, and I was just acting insane.

Flu was rampant right now and making its run throughout the entire school. So badly in fact, about a week ago, Alana Beck, who has never missed a day of school in her life, had to go home due to violent, and constant vomiting.

_Hello?_

But, even with this knowledge, I can't shake the feeling of dread every time I walk into a classroom, or go into the bathroom, or go down the halls. The fear of running into either of them expanded every minute like a sponge sitting in water.

_...Hello?_

Before the events... of last night, I could always practice what I'd say _days_ before I even said anything. I'd repeat them until the words became glued into my head. I had every topic, every phrase, every sentence, down to a science. Despite the fact that my real life conversations never quite follow my inner script, it helped ease my mind to plan ahead.

_Earth to Evan, you there?_

But, for some reason, I can't do it with Connor. I tried. Any scenario I can imagine, it leads to him trying to kill me or killing hisself.

I guess the idea of talking to him in the first place was so just far-fetched, that even my imagination couldn't _fathom—_

_**"Evan!"**_

I visibly jump at the sound of my name. It takes me, embarrassingly, more than a second to recollect myself.

Oh right. I exhale the breath I was holding, and I put down the hand I dramatically raised over my chest. Jared was here.

"Jared... you scared the shit out of me..."

"Uh... I don't know why. I've been right here... the entire time... talking to you, asswipe." Oh, uh.

"Sorry."

"No, no, it's fine. I know I'm just _such worthless garbage_ that someone of _your stature_ wouldn't even dream of communicating with someone of _such lowliness,_" He sighed with a painfully fake accent.

"Hey, I—I said I was sorry." He waves me off.

"No, no. You've just been _too busy_ over there fantasizing about Zoe Murphy's _boobies_ or some shit," I gag, "_Much_ more important than whatever _I_ had to say to you..." Heat had risen to my cheeks. I look away, not being able to look at Jared's shit-eating grin. I felt like a twelve-year old, embarrassed by the word _"boobies"._

"I—I wasn't! I was... um, just, just worried about... _stuff_. That's all."

"Stuff?" He asked skeptically, immediately giving up the_ 'woe is me'_ act at the sound of something interesting, "like... worried Connor Murphy will spazz out and beat the shit out of you, kind of stuff? Or like worried Zoe Murphy might not want to bang you anymore, kind of stuff?"

I don't respond, inadvertently confirming that both his speculations were true. Well, maybe my worries were not quite as... eloquently put, but they held the same sentiment.

He sighed, and clapped his hand on my shoulder like a disappointing father to his son.

"Look, dude. If I were you, I'd throw _that shit,_"

he pointed to the lump in my pocket, "_straight_ into the garbage, and forget it ever happened. His family is _insanely_ rich. He can just get a new pair, and not even think about it! Imagine being that rich.

"I... I don't know. I guess you're right, but... "

I scratch the back of my head nervously, "I don't know, it— it just doesn't feel right..."

"Well, if you go talk to him, I can guarantee your body won't feel right after he smashes your _fuckin' skull _in." He shot me a pointed look.

"...And as for Zoe, there is absolutely _no fucking way _you have any chance with her after what happened. You might as well move on. Plenty of fish in the sea, and all that jazz."

The school's bell rung, saving me from having to comment further. As he began to walk away, he stopped and turned back around, like he remembered something.

"Hey! I think Tristan Davidson is looking for a boy-toy... And she's more... _in your playing field_, if you get my drift. And as far as I know, no crazy ass brother either," he shot me a peace sign as he walked away, "_Deuces._"

I don't respond to his lame goodbye. I turn around and head towards my class. Last class, in fact. I keep my head down at the floor, dreading every single step.

Calculus. I shared it with Connor Murphy. Not that he'd be there, I reminded myself. He wasn't here. I take a deep breath, and walk into the classroom.

Automatically, all eyes turn towards me. With effort, I manage to hold my head up. I tried to not look intimidated. A quick scan of the room told me, as I had already pretty much known, he wasn't here.

Sigh. Relief.

"Evan, take a seat please." Mr. Donte gestured towards the desks. I obliged, taking a seat as far in the back as I can.

"Alright, students, now that I have all of your attention. Please take out your pencils, and pass the booklet to the person to your left. When I say 'Go' you will begin your exam."

A melody of groans echoed throughout the room, along with the sound of shuffling through backpacks. The fact that we had exams this week didn't bother me too much. I was just relieved I got through the entire day without having an awkward conversation with the Murphy's.

...

I sat outside the school, on a bench near the entrance. I watched the students walk past me, some going to their cars, some getting picked up by their parents, and those who lived nearby walked home.

My mother's voice came through the small speaker of the phone.

_"Just ask, 'Hey, is anyone driving near my house? Can I catch a ride?' I'm sure somebody is."_

I know my mom means well, but there is no way in fresh hell I'm doing that.

"It's okay, Mom. I'll just walk."

_"Evan... It's five miles away."_

"It'll be, uh, a long walk then. I better get going. Bye—"

_"Really, Evan? Oh my God. Just ask someone for crying out loud."_

"Everyone..." I look around, a large group of friends walked past me, followed by dozens of other students, "has left already. I'll be okay." I could hear her sigh through the other side of the screen.

_"I should have never taken this shift..."_

"No. It's— I'll be okay. I'll just—"

_"No. It's fine, Evan. I... I'm going to try and get off as soon as I can. Just stay there okay? God, I need to take some time off and get you driving. You could have had your license by now if I wasn't so busy."_

"No, really. I'll be okay. Don't leave work because of me."

_"Evan—"_

"I'll be fine. I'll just walk."

_"Listen to me, you can't—"_

"Love you, bye." I hang up before she can finish.

I throw my backpack over my shoulders, and plugged my address into the GPS on my phone to route me home.

_1 hour and 45 minute(s)_

There, you see? It will take less time to walk home than it would to wait for Mom to get off work. I made the right choice.

...

I made the wrong choice.

My feet ached.

I was almost halfway there. I was currently in Cherry Grove Avenue, one of the safest neighborhoods in town.

I wasn't there anywhere close to home, but I can tell you it's going to take much longer than the phone estimated. Not that I can necessarily blame the phone, it just didn't calculate how extremely incompetent in any sort of physical activity I am.

I check my phone.

_4:23 PM_

_Ugh_. I pull out my water bottle from the backpack, and unscrew the lid. I put it to my lips, but only a single drop slid out. I shook it upside down, but it only confirms it was indeed empty. _Huff_. As I went to put it back in my bag, the entire backpack fell off of my arms, spilling its content onto the sidewalk.

_Could this day possibly get any worse?_

I tried to pick up all the papers and the textbooks off the ground, but before I could, an ear-piercing, angry shout rang out, making me jump nearly two-feet in the air.

I frantically look around my surroundings. And just like that, that one shout caused an eruption of loud arguing and door slamming.

All the noise was coming from the house I was directly in front of. I scramble to get the last few papers and shove them in my bag carelessly. I finally get up on my feet, desperate to get away.

I ran alongside the fence of the backyard to go to the next block over, deviating from my digital compass. _I'll just have to take the long way._

The yelling became louder. I ducked behind the fence the moment I heard the back door slam open.

Unfortunately, it seemed the arguing people came outside to argue.

"...You say that every time! Every time it's—" It was a woman.

"I don't know what you want me to do." Though, I couldn't see him, but his voice indicated he was a man.

"_'He doesn't want it'_—" she mimicked him.

"He doesn't! Tell me I'm wrong! Oh wait, you can't!"

"_'I can't fix him...'_, that's what you would always say. For crying out loud, he's our son! It's our job to help him!"

"How am I supposed to do that? Hmm? You tell me, and I'll do it. In an heartbeat. I'll fucking do it. You see, the problem is you don't know the answer either, you just yell at me, acting all high and mighty, like you do!" He hissed.

"Don't pin everything on me! I am _trying! _At least I haven't given up on him like you have!"

I try to inch away without them noticing me. The fence around the yard was only about knee-high, so I was on my stomach, crawling beside it.

"Given up on him? Oh my God, Cynthia. All you do is— Connor could murder someone right now, and you would just slap him on the wrist and say, 'no', like a damn dog!"

Connor...? Surely... surely it wasn't... I hesitate. It couldn't be Connor Murphy. No, no. It couldn't. I shake my head. Connor Murphy is at home, sick. Stupidly, I decide to continue to eavesdrop, just in case.

"Larry! _He tried to end his own life_. He felt like life wasn't worth living anymore. What do you expect me to do?! Punish him? _Hasn't he suffered enough?"_

"What he needs is some rules and stability in his life! He's doing all this mumbo jumbo act to try and _manipulate_ _us_ into getting what he wants, because he's used to it, because _you_ _enable him!_"

"I'm trying to help him! You know that!"

"I don't know what you want me to say! I am trying to help too, you know? All I'm saying is we need to get rid of all hazardous things out of his reach! Is it a crime to say I don't want my boy harming himself?!"

"We've tried that, Larry! It doesn't work! We locked everything in a safe before, don't you remember? I don't know where he got that thing from! I don't know what to do anymore. I don't! I really am trying. I really, really am, Larry," Her voice cracked.

"I know that! I'm just saying we need to approach this..." he sighed, "...logically rather than emotionally. Maybe we can get his driver's license revoked... I don't know, Cynthia. I'm just tired."

"I'm doing everything I can. I feel like I've tried everything. I don't know what else to do." She sounded on the verge of tears.

"I know that, Cynthia. Damnit, look at me."

"I—I can't, Larry! I can't do this anymore. How many times now... how many times has he tried...?"

He didn't respond, which only made her cry harder.

All I could hear for awhile were her heart wrenching sobs. I reach up to my face, and found that I was crying, too. Maybe because I couldn't help but think. _I wonder__ if Mom would cry like that if I..._

I decide not to continue that train of thought. Even I'm aware enough to know that that thought was a very dangerous road to go down and explore.

I took a moment to collect myself, before I try to head home.

Before I could finally crawl away, though, the door creaked open again, and out of it, the sound made my heart stop completely. Flat line.

"Mom, Dad. I'm home. Connor was... well Connor. ER nurse said he can come home in a day or two."

_Zoe._

Oh my God it was Zoe. Zoe f-ing Murphy. Oh God. Connor? The Connor they were talking about... Did he—? Was he... Was he... dead...? No, no, no, no...

My chest began to constrict.

I grab a fistful of the sprigs of grass poking out of the sidewalk, trying to find purchase, to try to ground myself to reality. Zoe's parents say something, but I can't hear it. It sounded so distant, like static. I accidentally pull the grass from complete from its roots. I grasp for more, but only scrape my hand against the ground.

No, no. This can't be real. This can't be real.

"...yeah. He told me... nasty stuff."

He...? What? Connor? Wait, Zoe said... he's... he... he was fine, right? That's what she had said before. And that's what she's saying now, right? He's still alive. Thank God. Thank God. But, oh my God. He still tried— he tried to...

My head began to ache, and I'm pretty sure I started to tremble. Before I realized what was happening, darkness crept into my vision, despite me trying to will it away.

Dizziness swept.

Black.

I fainted.


	5. Home

**From here until Chapter 8 are going to from Connor's POV. **

**Because it's Connor, discussion of suicide, self destructive tendencies, swearing, mental issues, arguing, and anger issues are going to be the normal warnings from this point forward til the end of the Connor series (and some will continue in Evan's POV too). Thanks!**

**_Connor's POV_**

—

"Connor, be careful getting in the car!" Mom nearly shouts, whilst hoisting me into the car.

"I got it," I huff.

"Let me help you, you just got out the hospital, be careful!" She said, as she tried to push me into the seat, but I resist.

I don't know why she acts like this every time this happens, like I'm a fragile little glass ornament or some shit.

"I got it, I got it. Get the fuck off me, _Cynthia_." I snap, shoving her off of me. I wasn't a damsel in distress, damnit. I can get in the damn car myself. She looked like she wanted to argue, but only sighed and turned away.

I sit in the front passenger seat. Making a point to get in with ease, without her help. All while ignoring the loud beeping of the seatbelt alert. This car ride had miserable written all over it. So I needed little victories, such as ruffling Mom's feathers, to get me through it.

She got into the drivers seat, and put her seatbelt on. She shot me a frustrated look, as if to say, _"really, Connor?"_

I give her a sarcastic smile in return. Mom ignored me, knowing exactly what I was trying to do. She began to drive out of the parking lot, and tried her best to tune everything else out.

I comfortably laid back in my seat, listening to the obnoxious beeping of the car until we got home. It was like music to my ears.

—

We got home, and had our awkward family talk as promised. It was the usual post-suicide talk:

All '_hazards'_ were kept in a safe, and if we needed them, we'd have to ask for permission. All bedroom doors have to be open at all times, otherwise Dad will take them out of the frame. No locking the bathroom door (we had an absolutely ridiculous looking Open/Closed cartoon bear sign on the door). No driving anywhere but school and back (miles will be checked daily, yeah right).

And, of course, last but not least, All phones and computers had to be turned in at 8PM (brand new rule).

This new rule was created because I used Zoe's phone the last time I did some illegal shit. Mine had gotten taken away at the time, and I knew Zoe would be furious, so obviously it was the option I picked. Oh, sweet Jesus, she was pissed. Everyone's reactions was absolutely worth all the trouble. I wish I had a camera.

However, with this new rule in place, I wasn't allowed to have any device outside of school hours, and Zoe was only allowed her phone and computer until 8PM. But, between having homework, being involved in clubs, and being in band, she didn't really get to stop _until about eight_. So, she would have extremely limited time to spend on her phone.

Needless to say, she was absolutely pissed off and was yelling at Dad. I sat back and watched it with an amused smirk. This must be one of the most entertaining _'talks' _we've ever had. I was loving every second of it.

Zoe stood in the living room, fruitlessly trying to explain how this new rule was completely unfair to her, while Dad sat cross-armed on the couch with Mom, who was acting complicit in the whole ordeal.

"—I already explained this," Dad sighed.

"But what am I even supposed to do for the rest of the night?!" Zoe shouted indignantly.

"I don't know, sleep? Read a book? Talk to your family? God, I swear, it's like kids nowadays can't live without their techno mumbo-jumbo anymore," he said, throwing his hands up.

"Let me get this straight, so you want me to eat breakfast, go to school, come home, do homework, then immediately go to bed—"

"What do you think your mother and I did as a teenagers? We did the exact same thing, except our parents made us get a job, on top of all that. Plus, our money wasn't ours to use, we had to help pay bills," Dad said.

"...Actually, Larry, I didn't start working until I was 19," Mom added thoughtfully.

"Well, point still stands!" Dad shouted. "Back in my day, we had to—"

"Yeah, yeah, you guys had to ride dinosaurs on the way to school, and had to fight Nazis on the way back. Boo-hoo," I sarcastically interrupt.

"Watch your tone, Mister!" Dad snapped.

"No," I say, unfazed by him. He looked like he wanted to argue with me more, but Zoe reeled him back into their discussion.

"Why do you always do this? You always try to put me down, and say that I'm spoiled. So, then you can say that I'm ungrateful, and completely disregard anything I say! This is bullshit! I don't understand why I'm getting punished for something Connor did!" Zoe yelled.

"Can both of you stop arguing?" Mom asked helplessly.

"Watch your language, young lady! And you're not getting punished, _unless_ you keep up that tone with me!" Dad said angrily. "It's our new house rules, and if you don't follow them, _then_ you'll be punished."

"Well, it feels like a punishment!" Zoe snapped, and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Doesn't matter how it feels, I told you what it is," Dad said. Zoe looked away, like she couldn't believe this was really happening.

"So... just how long is this going to be?" She asked.

"Until you move out," Dad said, to which Zoe gaped at him.

Ha! I don't know what's funnier, Zoe believing what he said, or Dad saying that with a straight face. It was almost like he believed it himself.

You see, in the Murphy family, this vicious cycle is a prime example of our family's dysfunction. What happens is this: I fuck up, thus making the rules stricter. I don't follow the rules anyway, so Mom and Dad feel bad that Zoe is the only one getting affected, rules are lifted until I fuck up again. Repeat.

Dad began to talk again, but this time his approach was more civil and calm, to which Zoe sadly responded in the same manner. Each shared their opinion on the matter, and things settled down. However, without the two arguing, I get bored of the conversation quickly. He went through the rules yet again, and the exceptions, and alternative sources for entertainment, yada-yada-yada. I zone out for most of it.

After the longest hour and half talk I've ever had, I crawl into the sweet abyss I call my bedroom. I throw myself onto the bed, having not laid on it for days. The hospital beds were so uncomfortable. I missed my own bed.

I look over at the familiar dick graffiti, which I lovingly spray-painted onto the wall. I had drawn it out of boredom one day. The first several times, Dad painted this ugly beige over it, which is sadly the color of the rest of the walls. He searched for the purple spray can, which was hidden in the floorboard, for weeks, but could never find it. Until eventually, he finally gave up repainting it.

Thus, I was allowed to keep him. I even wrote his name right beneath the drawing, "_Larry, the pretentious dick_." Looking at him always brought a smile to my face.

After a moment of staring at the purple dick on the wall, I looked for something to do. Boredom quickly led to stress, and I needed something to drown it out, specifically loud-ass music. I turn on the small radio in my window, and turn the volume to max. Heavy metal shook the entire room, nearly lulling me to sleep like baby in a rocking chair.

Then, of course, because I can have nothing good in my life, my sister walked in, disturbing my peace. Figures.

"Get the fuck out!" I throw a shoe at her, which she barely manages to dodge.

"I wouldn't be in here if it was up to me, dipshit. Dinners ready," she says with a huff, though I can see the slight uneasiness in her eyes. Good, it's easier if she's afraid. She leaves my room, thankfully. Unlike others in this household, she knew when I should be left alone.

...But on the other hand, I really wanted to eat dinner. I was too stubborn to admit it, but I was extremely hungry; I had hardly eaten anything since Friday.

I roll over, and debate if it's worth getting up and dealing with them. It better not be some shitty vegetarian recipe Mom found on Facebook. I swear, no decision she has ever made will ever come close to being the worst thing in the entire fucking world as her decision to become a Buddhist. Fuck Buddha.

I don't know who the fuck decided meditation was the worldwide cure for all illnesses. It was all utter bullshit. I didn't need meditation, I needed drugs. Hey you know what, speaking of—

"Connor, dinners ready!" Dad shouts, as I hear him walk up the wooden stairs. I ignore him entirely, instead wondering about a whole other topic.

How did Mom get dinner ready so fast anyways? It hasn't even been ten minutes since I came up here when they started barging in, demanding me to go back down. Maybe I was wrong, and she ordered... ooh, maybe she ordered pizza. Pizza sounded delicious right now. My stomach growled in agreement.

Dad slammed open the door, and sighed at, what I'm sure, was a miserable sight to look at. There was disappointment evident in his gaze, I'm sure. Without looking up, I shoot him the middle finger.

"Connor, get out of bed," he said sternly. Never understood why he always tried this method, him telling me to do anything makes me want to do it significantly less.

"I said now," he said.

"Actually, you didn't say now," I snark off.

"Damnit, boy! Get downstairs before I drag you down there," he says, standing there in wait. After a moment, when he finally realizes I'm truly not going to get up, the floor creeked under his weight, as he moved.

I expected him to grab me by the ankles and do exactly what he threatened to do, drag me down the stairs, but he doesn't. He simply goes back downstairs. I stared at his back in disbelief, as he walked down the steps.

What the fuck? Did he just leave? I do a double check. Him backing down from any threat was extremely uncharacteristic. Was he sick?

I laugh, and turn my music back up. Well if he was ill, it wasn't any of my business.

When I was finished with the radio, I returned to the sweet comfort of my bed, and took a short nap.

—

I was abruptly shaken by the shoulder. I flinch away at the sudden movement, but I calm down when I see it was only Mom. The room was dark, but she had apparently turned a lamp on while I was asleep.

"Hey, sweetie, I brought you dinner," she said. She revealed a paper plate wrapped in cling plastic. It was a casserole, with vegetables, and... chicken? Pork was the only meat allowed on the Buddha diet, so why chicken? "The Harrison's brought it over, so I didn't... anyway, I figured you weren't feeling well, so I brought it up to you instead."

I sit up, and glance over at the clock. I had been asleep for nearly two hours. Wow. Zoe and Dad were probably already in bed by now. And Mom probably would've been, too, if not for me. She's usually the earliest to retire for the night, so the fact that she stayed up just to bring me dinner was... nice.

"Thanks," I say.

She looks shocked for a moment, as if I had grown a third eye on my forehead. I look away from her piercing gaze, already regretting my decision to thank her. It was an off-handed statement, I didn't even think about it. God, I hated this. This is why I act the way I do; The moment I try to do anything '_normal_' or '_nice_', they make such a big deal out of it, and shove positivity down my throat for the next month, hoping I've 'changed'. That is what's going to happen next.

"...Y-Your welcome!" Mom finally says, as if she forgot to speak, laughing quietly to herself out of shock.

I look away from those damned hopeful eyes. I can't stand them. Why was she so surprised? Did she really think that little of me? Did all of them think I was so inhuman, I was incapable of any sort of kindness?

"Oh, um, I almost forgot! Here," she says, handing me the plate of food, along with a fork and a napkin. "Here's a knife if you need it, though, I doubt you will. The chicken was really tender, and I, uh, actually already cut it up for you in bite-sized pieces, I forgot I had done that, silly me, so you won't need the knife anyway. Let me put that away. It might be a cold though, do you want me to reheat it? I can take it back downstairs if you want me to. Do you want a drink?"

I don't respond to her questions, and just eat it anyway. I unfold the cling plastic, and toss it aside. I stab into a piece of lukewarm chicken, and was surprised at how good it was. I don't know if I was just starving, or if it was the chicken, but it was absolutely delicious. I debate whether or not I should announce that aloud, but I ultimately decide not to. She might have a stroke if I say two nice things in one night.

Mom sits there, watching me, making things as uncomfortable for me as she can, apparently.

"Do... do you want me to stay?" Mom asks hopefully.

"No," I say. She looks disappointed for a second, but she recovers, and nods understandingly. She stood up, and began to leave.

"Okay, call me if you need anything," she said. She stopped, and hesitantly spoke. "I love you..."

She awkwardly stood there, waiting for me to respond. It was obvious she wanted me to reciprocate the gesture, but I haven't said "_I love you_," in years. Not because I didn't, necessarily, it was just an annoying phrase, like "_bless you,_" or some shit, which I gave up years ago. The way people used the words constantly caused them to hold no real meaning anymore. They were pointless pleasantries, which I decided to take no part of.

Disappointed by my lack of reaction, she started to leave again. Mom gave me one last look, before she closed the door shut, leaving me alone in my quiet.

I stare at the plate in front of me, until I silently pick up, and chew a piece of chicken. It tasted bland and tough, nearly making me gag. The complete opposite of how it had tasted just a few moments ago. My appetite has apparently ebbed away in the last few minutes. I felt sick, and I didn't know why.

I put the unappetizing food away on my nightstand, and I struggled to fall back asleep.


	6. Sorry

"Pass me the syrup, Zoe," Dad said.

Zoe handed it over to him, and Dad dumped it onto his pancakes, whilst he read his newspaper. As Dad took a sip of his coffee, Mom walked over to the table, and put a plate of sizzling bacon right in front of us; she informed us earlier this morning that she has decided not to remain Buddhist. She claimed she found some scholarly article last night which changed her opinion, but we all know the real reason why. It seems the single taste of last night's chicken was too good for her to pass up.

Dad and Zoe took several pieces of the bacon, but I merely continued to poke at the food on my plate. I wasn't hungry still. Mom rushed back over to the stove to check on the eggs, which she was scrambling.

I stab at the single pancake on my plate, trying to muster up the courage to eat it. I felt too disgusted to be hungry. Not by the food, the food was fine, but my family.

Everyone was acting uncharacteristically nice to me since last night. It was absolutely sickening. Mom had gotten up extra early to prepare this gigantic breakfast, despite having lost sleep last night, and has coddled and doted over me _all morning_. Dad started acting weird, too. When he woke up, he commented about how hot it was, and when he got back from work, all of us should going _swimming_, which we haven't done in years. Zoe, while she hasn't quite gone out of her way to be overbearingly nice, she has been unusually silent all morning, even when I tried to provoke her into arguing with me.

"Connor, you're not hungry?" Mom asked, bringing the rest of the food to the table. She sat down, and began to fix her plate. "Larry, can you pass me the pancakes please?" Without looking up, he passed the plate over to her.

"No." I continue to pick at my food. Zoe glances over at me, clearly wanting to say something, but she stops herself after taking one look at our parents.

"It's probably one of the side-effects of the medicine. I'll have to reread the labels when we're done," Mom says cheerfully.

There were lots of fucking pills I had to take, strong dosage ones, too. While they didn't say it to my face, I know Mom and Dad were told by the therapist to keep a firm eye on them, so I didn't try to overdose... again. All the medications were kept in this unnecessarily secure safe, along with all the other '_hazards_'.

Dad pushes his plate aside, and shows us an article in his newspaper, as he laughed like a maniac.

"Hey, look at this, '_Gardener Finds Bomb in Garden, Turns Out to be a Carrot_.' Ha! Can you believe it?" Dad snickered. Mom laughed, too, but it was obviously insincere.

"Oh my God, I can't believe it!" Mom's gaze kept rushing back to me.

"Yep, that carrot looks like a bomb... That's weird..." Zoe said robotically. I could tell she despised it. She looked miserable playing this '_perfect family_' role they're forcing her to sell to me.

Dad laughed yet again, and turned his paper around, continuing to read the article aloud. "'_The authorities came, and confiscated her vegetable_'," he chuckled, "Unbelievable! A vegetable!"

"I've never heard such a thing! Oh my god! That's hilarious! Don't you agree, Connor?" Mom asked trying to cover her laughter.

Rather than answering, I slam my head into the table, causing them to fake being alarmed.

"Connor, what are you doing?! Why would you do that? You're going to hurt yourself!" Dad said, almost as if he truly cared. Almost.

All of them acting as if they were actually concerned was far more irritating than them not caring at all. I was so done with this charade. I _want so badly _to flip the entire table over, and put all the food Mom had put so much work into cooking to waste — a metaphor if you will.

But instead, I grit my teeth, and abruptly stand up from the table, shoving everyone aside anyone who approached. I go upstairs, and of course, Mom followed me, making everything so much worse.

"Connor, wait!" I ignore her, knowing if I opened my mouth I would say something I'd regret. I slam my door behind me, half-hoping it hit her in the face. Since I was already completely going against all the house rules at this point, I lock it behind me.

Loudly cursing to myself, I start to pace from one end of the room to the other. Why? Why couldn't they just leave me the fuck alone?! I wanted to be alone right now. Why couldn't they understand that? Was all of this intentional? Do they want me to blow up at them, so they have an excuse to get rid of me? Fuck all of them!

"Connor!" Mom cried. She tried to turn the knob until she realized I locked it. "Open up, please!" Her fist met the door. "_Connor!_"

"_Leave me alone before I fucking kill all of you!_" Grabbing the first thing I could reach, I throw a ceramic lamp, which was on my nightstand, at the door. It shatters into dozens of pieces. I faintly hear Dad curse and run up the stairs, along with Zoe yelling something unintelligible.

"What happened?! Open the door!" She banged on the door with her fist. I hear Dad approach her.

"Just leave him alone! Let him simmer down," Dad told her angrily in a hushed tone. She screamed at him, as he tried to pull her away from the door.

They needed to stop. I knew my frustration was getting out of hand, but it wasn't _my fault_. It was their fault for constantly provoking me. They should've left me alone like I wanted. I wanted to be alone, and _I told them_, but they didn't listen. The sound of their voices still behind my door grated my nerves.

"_Go the fuck away!_" I scream again. I wanted— no I needed to be alone right now. I still hear them, though, they haven't left at all! What the fuck is wrong with them?!

I try to cover my ears, but it doesn't help with the noise. Frustrated, I grab my at my hair, pulling clumps of hair out. I frantically search the room for something that would be satisfying to throw, anything to ease my mind. I grab one of the few books on my shelf and throw it against the door with a resonating thud. It wasn't enough.

"_Stop it! You're going to hurt yourself!_"

I ignore her, and jump to grab hold of the tall bookshelf, and pull it to the ground, along with everything on it, making the floor beneath me tremble slightly. I fall backwards. The bookshelf slammed into the ground with a thud. Books, figures, mementos, and trinkets, which sat on the shelf, laid on the ground in disarray. The books' pages were bent in a such a way, they might not be readable anymore. Most of the other items were either broken, or crushed under the weight of the piece of furniture. Pieces of glass scattered the ground amongst me.

That was it. That was what I needed. My rage began to ebb away, as I tried to catch my breath. I can only catch it in small gasps.

I faintly hear Mom and Dad arguing, as he dragged her away, presumably downstairs. I stand up, staring at the massive mess I made, still completely winded.

Realization. Embarrassment. Self-loathing. They all hit me all at once. I just threw a tantrum, I realize, like a toddler would do. An actual tantrum. Like a pathetic child. God, why did I act like this?

I walk over to the door, wondering if I should open it and face the consequences, until a crunching noise catches my attention. I lift my boot, revealing shards of broken ceramic under my heel. My late grandmother gave me that lamp when I was younger. She was an artist was who made it herself, and I destroyed it like the monster I was. Figures.

Putting my ear to the door, I hear the sound of arguing from my parents downstairs. All of this was too overwhelming for me. Feeling like I was about to collapse where I stood, I sit down on the ground, among the pieces of the broken lamp, not caring if the shards pierce my clothes or dig into my skin. Even if they did, it's not like I didn't deserved it.

Entirely disgusted with myself, I stare at my stained bandaged wrists. Whilst in my tantrum, it seems I tore one of the stitches by accident. The red was spreading.

It was kinda funny, how fate can subtly remind you that you're never going to heal. No matter how many times anyone bandages you up, you're going to remain a broken piece of shit. A worthless piece of shit, remains a worthless piece of shit.

I stare at the red bleeding through the white material. It was nasty really, and I'm pretty sure it needed to be tended to now to prevent further tearing, infection, and whatever else. But, I don't know how to clean it. Mom had always done it for me before, and said it was really difficult to do. She thought that if I did it myself, I'd accidentally open it back up.

Which is utter bullshit by the way, I think I'm a big enough boy who can handle pouring hydrogen peroxide over my own arms once a day. It wasn't that difficult. However, with everything that has happened this morning, I probably shouldn't rock the boat anymore. It's probably safer to just wait.

Suddenly, I hear the back door open, and the arguing suddenly quietens. They must of went outside, I figure, like they always do when they argue. They think we can't hear them out there, but we usually can

I look over at the clock on my nightstand, which had a crack in the glass. I walk towards the nightstand to read the time. 8:23AM. Rubbing my thumb across the front, I try to remember what happened. I don't even remember breaking the clock. My thumb hurt from where I had touched the jagged glass, though, it wasn't bleeding.

Dad was supposed to be at work at 8:30, so if he didn't stop arguing now, he was going to be late. Which, he's probably going to blame me for, but I don't care. It's his own damn fault for hanging around.

Zoe was supposed to be at school at 8:15, so she if she was here still, she was going to be extremely late. That is, if she hadn't left already, which I'm sure she has. She had no reason to stick around after breakfast.

I look through the damaged window, and see my parents in the backyard. They were trying to be quiet, but were failing miserably. I open up the window, and listen.

"—say?" Dad said, though, I couldn't catch the first part.

"Larry, please," Mom sighed.

"Your plan didn't work. He's not getting better, Cynthia," he crossed his arms, "if anything, I think he's getting worse."

"But you didn't see him last night, Larry. It was like he was my little Connie-bean again. For a split second, he—"

"'A split second'? That's it? That's what we're basing this all off of?" He laughed mirthlessly.

"It's a step in the right direction," she replied frustration evident in her tone.

"A single step forwards and, what? Ten steps back?" Dad asked, unimpressed. Mom growled at him, about to retort, but he interrupts her, "No amount of unconditional love and support can fix him at this point. He needs plain discipline."

"He's hurting," she said. Dad turned his head away, avoiding her gaze. She repeated, "He's hurting, Larry, he doesn't need punishment. He needs treatment."

"What kind of treatment? You keep coming up with these things over and over again that don't work!"

"If— if therapy doesn't work, what does then? Huh? How am I supposed to help?!"

"A weekend yoga retreat is not therapy," Dad rebutted.

"I am at my wits end, Larry. You come up with something then if you don't like what I'm trying to do!" she angrily threw her hands up, "I feel like there are still options that might help Connor. We just haven't found the right one yet."

"Cynthia, we can't just... try everything! It'll do more harm than good," Dad explains. "What Connor needs is consistency. We need to stay with the same doctor, same schedule, same rules, and not let up on him. It's scientifically proven that kids do better with consistent hours!"

"Y'know what? I completely agree! But the issue here is is you're being too harsh on him, which I'm sure science also proves is bad for kids! Science also proves, that two arguing parents aren't ideal, either, so there!"

"What do you want me to do? I've been doing exactly what you say for years. I've been complicit, I've listened to all your spiels, and look where we are now," Dad snapped.

"It's not my fault! I'm trying to help him! You're—"

"No! It is your fault," Dad yelled. "Take some damn responsibility, woman! Connor has tried to kill himself, how many times now? He literally tried to take his life just a few days ago! Then, you march around claiming he's better! I'm not going to let you guilt me into me changing my mind, _again_, when I know I'm right!"

It was difficult to see this distance, but I could Mom was crying. Dad gave her one last glance, before he looked away. He glanced at his watch.

"...I have to go to work..." he sighed dejectedly. He walked up to where Mom was, and tried to give her a kiss, but she pushed him away. He turned around, and walked away, leaving her alone in the backyard.

Mom stayed where she was standing, covering her face with her hands, sobbing. A few moments later, his car drove out of the driveway, and he went to work.

I take one last look, before I close the window.


End file.
